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smallstonehouse · 5 years ago

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A Lesson on Evil & Inconvenience

It should have been a real bitch of a scorcher today, but for some reason the rain decided to smile down upon our little piece of ravine. It had been a few weeks without a good honest-to-god rain, but thankfully it is always only a matter of time before the clouds finally collect enough condensation to fall back down to the land of mortals. I looked out the gentle window, past the frosty and rain-soaked glass, and out into the gardens. The plants there, previously withering and dying of thirst, were now bright and happy again. There was a certain air of relief that rang out through the ravine whenever the sky decided to shed its tears; the gentle mountain rain was the sole unifyer in the otherwise wild lands.

“Everything needs water,” my mother used to tell me, “because without it we would all thirst. It’s important to thank the sky for her gifts, my little one.”

I never really completely grasped what she meant until I took this life on myself. Growing up forces you to experience things with new perspectives, with history seeming to repeat itself at a whim. As a child, you can’t fully grasp what it is to starve, to thirst. Your parents stand over you and protect you from the atrocities of the real world. However, it seems, there is a time in everyone’s meager existence where they are deemed “old enough”. I never quite understood exactly what constituted this change of state, but nonetheless it was a present turning point in the lives of all living things.

As I sat and stared out the old cottage window, unto the fields that I toiled over year after year, one of the many mice that inhabit the walls came up to join me.

“Good morning, little mouse,” I spoke in a gentle, cooing tone.

“And to you, miss!” he squeaked back.

“How are things in your realm, Montague?”

“Oh, just fine. I’ve been tending to the fairy gardens, fighting off brownies, the standard day’s work.”

“And what important work you do, Montague Mouse.”

The curious little mouse stared out the window, over the now pouring rain. He was immediately overcome with a visible sense of peace, and I was happy for him; being the mouse knight of a cottage is hard work, I think, and he deserves a bit of a rest. I think, sometimes, we all need a bit of a rest. We all collectively, as people, have become quite obsessed with the hustle and bustle, with living fast and keeping busy. I, for one, loathe being busy. I cannot stand having to do things, let alone the same repetitive things day after day. That being said, I’m not talking of simple farm chores, but of office work and day jobs. The America I was raised in was always very fond of working hard and making lots of money, but the America I live in now is more concerned with being happy.

An America with her prime focus being the happiness of her people is the best sort of America; as opposed to an obsession with turning a profit, her people return to the old ways of caring for one another, of living for oneself and not toiling aimlessly for a conglomerate of monopolies, buying things to impress people they aren’t even quite fond of. She is happier once again, it seems. In fact, it’s almost ironic that at one point returning her to her former glory was perverted to push towards an opposite reality.

I shook myself from my catatonic state of thought, noticing that the rain had stopped falling, and the gentle mouse had returned to his duties. I took this as an opportunity to see how Hilda the Milk Cow was doing this fine day.

It was a short walk out to the cute little shed that she kept herself in, a wonderfully dainty wooden stable that was more than enough room for a few horses, let alone a single happy dairy cow.

“Good morning, Hilda!” I shouted kindly as I approached. She mooed back happily, clearly unaffected by the downpour she was forced to endure. I checked around her stable, no signs of critters or intrusion. This was a sign of relief; lots of wandering creatures of all backgrounds had a habit of calling Hilda’s shed home as well, and Hilda was not always very fond of these people. I remember once, a few years ago, she was so far spooked by a simple raccoon that she ran all the way to the house. Since then, I’ve taken very good care to ensure that I will always be Hilda’s sole visitor, and she seems to prefer it that way. I opened the rusty latch that kept her shut in, and within seconds she was happily roaming her field, chewing cud and fraternizing with the chickens. Hilda was always rather quite fond of the chickens, which was always fun to sit and watch. It was always a sort of awe-inspiring thing to see, as Hilda is this big lumbering beast and the chickens mere mortals in her presence. She was always so kind, so gentle with her friends. She had the kindest soul, and she didn’t even know it.

I saved Hilda from slaughter a few years ago, from a small farm not too far from my own. I had been walking through the woods behind our cottage, probably a couple miles deep, and came across the clearing where she lived. All alone, black and white breaking endless green plain. I could see her family out in the distance, but they were clearly herded together . She was the outlier, the one that did not fit in.

“Oh, come here pretty cow!” I called across the field to the magnificent beast, and she immediately turned her head and galloped to the fence that I was sitting upon. Hilda was like no cow I had ever met before; she was so kind and gentle, and had a glimmer of personality in her eyes. She was not some dumb animal. She was a beautiful and sophisticated soul merely trapped in the confines of a bovine prison. I had, in fact, fallen in love at the first sight of her. I returned to the pasture every single day for a whole week, always meeting Hilda in the same spot. Every day, I noticed the flock in the distance grow smaller and smaller.

“You’re set for the slaughter, aren’t you pretty girl?”

Yes, she seemed to speak to me, that is my fate.

“Can you take me to the farmer? I would like to make you my cow.”

Whether she truly understands my words still eludes me to this day, but nonetheless she seemed to understand what I was talking about. She led me across the field, a grand and magnificent one at that, to a quaint and tiny farmhouse tucked to the side of a pond.

“What’re you doing here with my cow, trespasser?” said a gruff old man who emerged from the farmhouse, shotgun in tow.

“You are a cattle farmer, I would like to buy this cow.”

He scoffed at my simple request.

“You want to buy a slaughter cow, one that has already been bought by a meat plant?”

“Of course, sir. She is a beautiful cow.”

“Get off my farm alive before I remove you from it in a pine box,” he threatened, brandishing his gun even more.

“I mean no trouble, sir, I simply mean to save this poor animal from a youthful death.”

The old farmer narrowed his eyes and glared at me. His grip on the rifle turned his knuckles an unholy shade of white. I dropped the kind, helpless act and went straight to the point.

“You aren’t going to shoot me, or you would have already. I’m offering to make this cow worth your while, as opposed to just up and taking her like I’d prefer.”

The old man seemed staggered at this point, taken aback by how sharp my tongue could be.

“You know what, miss?” He started, “I respect the hell out of someone who can stand their ground.”

And so Hilda belonged to me, and soon came back to my farm. She was always so happy, like a big puppy that never got the hang of being a giant dog. I never heard from the farmer again, nor ever decided to venture through the woods like that again. I had no reason to; unlike my neighbors and friends, I was content with what I already had. Why ask for more when I had everything I already needed? What was the purpose of a new car, another bottle of expensive wine when my old and battered Lincoln still persisted to tick along happily, and the cheap supermarket wine tastes just as sweet? I never quite understood the consumerist culture in America, why people were so obsessed with always having “the next big thing”. Why was it always so impressive when a neighbor got a fancy new truck, or when someone decided to pay more than a hundred dollars on a pair of shoes? What about “stuff” has made us lust for money simply to waste it on material things that do not, in fact, benefit us? I’ve watched countless friends and family toil aimlessly, working long hours for weeks at a time with no rest, trying to impress everyone else. What about other people’s opinions drive us?

“What do you think, Hilda?” I said to the sweet creature before me.

“Mooooooooooooo,” Hilda called back.

“Are you enjoying the fresh rain?”

“Moooooooooo!”

“Of course you are, sweet Hilda, you never have any worries.”

She mooed again, very thoughtfully, and returned to playing with her chickens. Yes, I had forgotten: the chickens. The chickens were all fantastic layers, all 9 of them. It had been a while since we’d had a rooster, so no chicks had been added to the flock in years. They were getting old, too, but that was a problem to address when the bridge was crossed. I hiked over to the coop that held the wonderful birds. Now was a perfect time to rummage through the straw and sawdust, as Hilda was beautifully distracting the chickens from their nests. I needed a basket, however. Where was the basket I kept right by the coop? I searched all around the little house, up and down, anywhere. It wasn’t in the house, I was sure of it. Maybe someone had a need for a basket and borrowed mine?

“Are you looking for something?” said a voice out of nowhere.

“Just my basket, little fairy,” I replied. At these words, the tiny winged creature revealed himself from the grass he was no doubt napping in below. He was taller for a fairy, but had the same clothes on as the others that dwelled around here.

“Ah, yes, the tan wicker one with the metal frame?”

“Yes, sir, that’s the one!”

“Well, I’m afraid to say it’s been taken.”

“Taken? By whom?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? There have been gangs of frogs terrorizing the fairies and other folk in this here valley.”

“Frogs? I have never known frogs to be aggressive. Are you sure that this isn’t the trickery of a group of Pixies?”

The fairy laughed, “If it were pixies, there would’ve been an easy fight. These are frogs of some kind. I wasn’t close, but they were big, and slimy, and hopped really funny”

This was rather strange; the frogs had never bothered me nor the fairies, and were in fact mostly harmless and primarily helpful. To my knowledge, frogkind was peaceful and all that concerned them was matters involving flies. The frogs lived in a pond not too far into the woods, so I elected to pay them a visit.

The forest was tall and as old as time itself, filled with stories of many Americas before this one, of many people who walked and lived and even died within its borders. The forest held magic, as all forests do, and this one was especially magical. It had taken some time, but the fairies all had houses, the bees had plenty of flowers to feast on, and the frogs had their pond. Every group that inhabited the forest had their own means to be self-sufficient, and had largely stopped fighting with each other because of the stability they have maintained since I moved here. Ergo, it was strange to hear a fairy accusing the frogs of wrongdoings in the community; it was very unlike the frogs to wander from the pond, let alone be unkind to the other denizens of the forest. I travelled the old beaten dirt paths I had spent countless hours milling into the earth and thought long and hard about what could have possible happened to cause the frogs to act like this, let alone to steal an entire basket. It didn’t make sense to me, but I had to find out nonetheless.

I came across the pond, and it twinkled in the sunlight that fought its way past the treetops. Nothing seemed out of place, but at the same time it was a pond; not much could be out of place in a place like this.

“Hello? King of Frogs? I’d like to request council,” I yelled into the empty pond. Like clockwork, the council of Frogs emerged from the brush, taking their spots on a circle of lilypads in the middle of the pond. A larger frog, far bigger than the rest, made his way to an equally sized lilypad in the center of the group.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” said the frog king.

“And to you, kind sir.”

“What matters have you to discuss with us, kind one?”

“Well, you see, my basket has gone missing.”

“A theft? Are you trying to insult us? Frogs don’t steal, silly girl.”

“I’m aware, but a fairy told me that-”

“A fairy? One that seemed taller than any other fairy that you have met?”

I stood aghast, “Yes, actually.”

The frog king bellowed, filling his sac with air and making various frog sounds. He fell silent, as did the council around him. They sat for some time, talking amongst themselves in their frog language.

“Do you know who this fairy is, then?” I asked.

The frogs halted their chatter.

“Of course, miss. This fairy is no fairy, but a changeling. We have not seen one in some time, but they are always up to no good. I have never met a changeling that was not a cunning fox, and this one is no different. We have not seen your basket, but I would not be wrong to assume that you being sent here to cause a ruckus was part of his plot.”

“Uhm,” I began slowly, “What is a changeling?”

The frog council laughed at my question.

“Silly mortal,” the king began, “changelings are an ancient race. They first descended from fairies, but fell off the path to light. They learned even more ancient and dark magics than had ever been used, which is how the came to be able to change their form. That is why the fairy appeared to be taller than usual; he is not a fairy, but a changeling. That was not his true form.

“Well, then, do you know what they look like?”

The council shared laughter again.

“Nobody knows the true form of a changeling because nobody has ever killed one. They are bigger than fairies, but smaller than cats. This is all we know, and we bid you good luck.”

I bowed to the council and headed back to the cottage. How strange, I thought, that not even the mighty council of frogs could figure out what was at play here. As I walked, I tried to imagine just why the changeling took my basket, and why he tried to pin it on the frogs. I had no leads, but surely I would find something.

Soon enough, I had returned to the chicken coop, and lo & behold, the changeling was sitting atop the roof, eating some berries.

“Why did you lie to me, Mr. Fairy?” I spoke with fury.

“Well, miss, you just seemed so dumb and gullible I had to!” he replied, laughing in between his words.

“Why blame the frogs?”

“I’ve always hated frogs. They’re old and slimy and act as if they know everything.”

“Okay, but why take my basket in the first place, Mr. Changeling?”

The changeling smirked. Before my eyes, he began to morph and change. Soon enough, he had become a small goblin, still grinning the same evil smirk. He was definitely shorter than a cat, but if the cat were to stand upright, and far taller than a fairy. He had mottled grey skin, and a long brunet beard that was decorated with gold trinkets, and wore rags that matched the tattered boots on his feet.

“I was wondering if the frogs had caught on by now. Surely they didn’t think that the fairies were stealing their tadpoles. They’re so delicious, especially before they grow any limbs.”

“Mr. Changeling,” I said, my exasperation growing by the second, “Why did you take my basket?”

The changeling sat for a second, stroking his beard, carefully planning whatever words were about to escape his maw.

“Because I wanted it. I don’t particulary have a use for it, but I liked it and decided that it is now mine.”

I was dumbfounded.

“You can’t simply take things from other people, you know.”

“Ah, yes, but if you are not there to stop me, is it really your basket?”

“Why, yes, it is, that’s how owning things works. I bought that basket years ago, ergo it belongs to me.”

“It may have at one time,” the creature cackled, “but it is no more.”

With one simple kick, I sent the changeling off the ground and into the side of the chicken coop. The changeling lay, slumped, with a purplish blood oozing from his lips.

“You have one hell of a leg on you, girl,” he spit.

“If you really paid all that attention, you would know better than to test me.”

“You’re a fool if you think you are more powerful than I.”

“You’re a fool if you think I want anything other than my damn basket.”

Once again, the changeling sat in awe. Never before had he had someone stand up to him like that.

“I am more powerful than you can imagine, foolish mortal.”

“I believe it,” I began, “but you’re also the third smallest creature that roams these parts, and I have no qualms about kicking you again.”

The changeling snickered and morphed himself into a small wolf, roughly the size of a cat. The wolf snarled and bared its yellowed teeth, making itself seem as big as possible. I kicked the changeling once again, this time in his exposed throat. He reeled in pain, morphing back into his goblin form.

“Perhaps,” he coughed, “I have met my match. You are a worth opponent, but I will not go down so easily.”

I was seriously amazed by the resilience of this little creature, but I was not looking for a fight.

“Just give me the basket and run along.”

“Where is the fun in that? All of my… friends… will miss me!”

I rolled my eyes at the little man, knowing that my basket was forever lost.

“ Have it your way, jackass.”

I proceeded to stomp that tiny goblin into an even smaller puddle of changeling-related liquids, as if he were a spider that snuck up on me inside. When he was reduced to a bleeding heap, I tried once again.

“Now, where is my basket?”

The changeling looked up at me and smiled his devilish grin again.

“Still on about that basket? You’ve such a one-track mind, my dear.”

Before my eyes, the changeling then disappeared into thin air. Of course, he was not truly invisible but merely masquerading as such. I could see his footsteps trailing away in the grass as he snuck away. I decided to just let him go; why bother with one troublemaker that caused me a single minor inconvenience? After all, it was nice to go out and visit the frogs; I hadn’t been out to see them in some time. In fact, it wasn’t much an inconvenience, as all that I lost was my basket. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to the cottage to fetch some other receptacle for carrying eggs. I’ve learned through years of living out here on this little chunk of land that worrying about things you cannot control bothers nobody but yourself. Clearly, as the frogs had told me, changelings feed off of the negativity they cause. By not letting him affect my emotions, he was unable to make use of me as a source of power. I think most people could learn from this, as it seems people are too affected by the actions or words of other people. By doing this, you are only hurting yourself; dwelling on negativity only breeds hatred and contempt for your fellow man. Will anyone actually take this advice? Probably not. Would it help? Definitely.

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smallstonehouse · 5 years ago

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On Being Busy

I find it truly despicable that in order for one to survive in America, he has to sacrifice all of his free time struggling for a job that pays him “just enough”. Not enough to live comfortably and save some of his paychecks, but just enough to not fall into debt. There is this myth of a 40 hour work week, that working from 9 in the morning to 5 at night is the best balance of work-home. This cannot be the case, as working all day causes a tired body and mind. The tired body cannot work, the tired mind cannot think. This is why so many people exist on a schedule of “wake up-work-watch tv-sleep”, in that order. We are so addicted to technology in the modern age because that’s the only shred of freedom we are allowed to indulge in.

The federal minimum wage is currently $7.25, and is typically seen as an ideal “starter wage” for high school students and college kids on vacation. While it makes sense that a highschooler doesn’t necessarily need to make six figures, why is our bottom line so damn low? Why are we allowing so many Americans to fall out of debt, lose their homes, and starve on a regular basis?

The rich, as the graphs show, get richer and richer every single year, while the cost of living seemingly always climbs ever higher, an Icarus that will never feel the heat of the sun. For someone who lives in a house for $500 per month, with all of the normal expenses that come with such a thing (utilities, car insurance, etc.), the federal minimum wages allows for all of these needs to be met with little-to-no room to spare. This isn’t a matter of opinion either, but a game of numbers and facts. If you take even a rate as high as $9 per hour, what I currently get paid, there is only but a couple hundred dollars to spare at the end of the month. Mind you, this is for the cheapest house I could find to rent in my area. How are we supposed to be “upwardly mobile” and a “land of dreams” as we like to call ourselves when the vast majority of Americans are currently unemployed or being paid nonexistent wages? How is it possible that someone on unemployment collects more money per week than I can make on a single paycheck? In fact, I would argue that we would have less need for unemployment if the federal minimum wage reflected the income that you receive on unemployment. Why is it fair that a select handful of people who got lucky between 15 and 35 years ago get to sit on top of the Scrooge McDuck pile, swimming in miles upon miles of crisp bills, while those who provide that lucrative income are left to suffer and starve in the street? There has been talk of something called a “universal human income” that would fundamentally eradicate the homeless problem in America (if every person gets enough income standard from the government to afford monthly rent, there would be little reason anyone would stay on the street) and help millions of struggling families across the country get back on track to being able to live without worry. That is freedom, truly; being able to live and survive without having to do anything. This, I think, is why people tend to be so miserable. They get little to no choice in what they get to do every day, every week, every year. Sure, you can go to college and get a degree in a field that you enjoy, if you can afford to pay an upwards of 75K per year for tuition. Sure, you might get lucky and work in a family business that you adore and it just so happens to pay you very well. Here’s the problem: the majority of Americans simply cannot afford higher education, even with the advent of loans and scholarships. Even if more Americans could afford college, the education system is broken far beyond just the astronomical book price. Throughout the 12 years of state-mandated schooling, students are forcefed watered-down versions of history that ignores many of the atrocities the nation has caused, forcefed mathematics that serve them no use in the real world, and taught not to learn and apply skills but to memorize information and cheat on standardized tests. Why is so much importance put on the memorization of information and not on the actual use and application of real life skills? I have learned more about the world and how it works in the past year outside of schooling than I had in 12 years in the system. If the education system is supposed to educate the future of America, why is it failing so hard? Most teachers are taught how to fall into this traditional method of instruction, indoctrinated into a cult that preaches that everyone must be the same, one that damns creativity and individualism, that there is only ever one or two proper ways to accomplish a task. They then go teach classes largely by lecture or by handing over binders worth of busywork that has little to no actual relation to whatever the lesson is being taught on. Why, in typical schooling, are we forced to write in cursive (a dead form of script) but the idiosyncrasies of daily life are completely ignored, save for the occasional home economics class. Where are the classes about living in the real world? Why are we all set up to get out of school and fall on our face?

That is the purpose. We are supposed to fail miserably in this system. We are merely pawns for corporations to profit from, to leech money constantly from our coffers. The American schooling system teaches us how to sit at a desk and be good little students, and not much else. Even in college lectures, it seems to be a large theme of the same goddamn thing. Sit down, be quiet, pay attention. Of course, you never actually have to apply the skills you are learning about past maybe a term paper or two, but that’s okay; you aren’t supposed to be self sufficient, you are intended to rely on the government and all of the wonderful corporations that provide the things you need. Be honest with yourself, do you REALLY need to carry an iPhone with you? And the matching AirPod Pros? The simple answer is no, actually. Your parents did just fine with landlines and Blockbuster video. The issue here is that we have been conditioned to lust for convenience, to the point that our economy relies on such business. Uber, Doordash, Amazon Prime, and many other services will provide you with whatever you may need for a much higher price than it would take to cook or simply go acquire the goods yourself. Sure, some things you can realistically only get online, but who the fuck needs a combination air fryer and beer cooler? That’s another thing about this consumerist culture; so many people think they need the new and shiny shit they show on TV just to be happy, as if yet ANOTHER total gym will finally make your children respect you. That being said, it isn’t much easier to avoid all of this consumerism to begin with. With so much of American life revolving around having to be as quick as possible, anything that makes the average daily task just a little bit easier is a fantastic commodity that is to be treasured and held close, something that will most definitely be useful more than once or twice. Americans love these little nifty things, and we are paying for it not just in our wallets, but in our lives. What voids we fill with meaningless object, we leave closed to what we were truly missing in the first place.

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